


Comfort Food

by ValueTurtle



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-23 18:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValueTurtle/pseuds/ValueTurtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vignettes in a gustatory history of Rose and her Doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Course

He slipped the apron over his head and tied the strings around his waist, making sure the knot was secure. Nothing worse than having your apron fall off, mid-stir. Rose was sitting at the kitchen table, a mug of tea in one hand and some sloppy 51st century romance in the other. He could smell the steam from her drink, could smell how its warmth picked up Rose's perfume and her own earthy, human-y scent and carried it over to him, even across the room. Books and tea and Rose, and was that butter on her fingers, from her toast?

 

The Doctor put the stew pot on the hob with perhaps a tad more force than necessary.

 

Rose jumped and twisted in her chair, facing him. She laughed. 'What on earth are you wearin'?'

 

'Not on Earth,' he reminded her, mildly. 'It's an apron.' The Doctor walked over to one of the large, industrial – well, Rose would call them industrial – refrigerator drawers and sorted through the identical looking packages. Plain white paper, neat labels with weights and species printed in clear Gallifreyan. He considered, for a moment, using Omphalos lamb, but quickly went with good, old Devon beef. Rose wouldn't be able to tell the difference and she got a little weird sometimes about “alien” meats. 'Dead useful, you know,' he continued, flashing her a bright grin. 'Keeps your jumper nice and clean, it does.'

 

'I know what an apron is, Doctor,' Rose told him slowly, as if he were being particularly thick. 'I was wonderin' _why_ you were wearin' one.' The lovers in her book were forgotten now that she was focusing all her attention on him.

 

'Well, that's a different question entirely!' From the vegetable drawer he pulled out celery and onion and carrots and potatoes, piling them up on the counter until they threatened to roll off on to the floor. They didn't though, of course, because he stacked them just so.

 

With his head in the cupboard he only just caught Rose's exasperated sigh. ' _Why_ are you wearin' an apron?'

 

He frowned. 'I told you – keeps your jumper tidy.'

 

'You are impossible!'

 

'Nah, you're too simple.' Relenting, finally, he put down the cans of Guinness and tomato paste. 'I'm going to teach you how to make stew.'

 

It was obviously not what she was expecting. Rose scrunched her nose in confusion. 'Isn't that a bit, you know – _domestic_?' She said the word carefully, practically italicising it. 

 

'Stew's not domestic. Stew's stew. Domestic is mothers and fightin' about laundry and worryin' about how you're going to get to work on Monday since the car's in the shop.' He grabbed a head of garlic and too much parley and added them to the collection.

 

Rose took her mug of tea and wandered over to where he stood, leaning back against the counter. 'I'm going to have to start makin' a list,' she teased, shaking her head. ''Cause I reckon “domestic” just happens to be anything you don't like.' She sipped her drink and looked at him over the rim, her eyes laughing.

 

''Course it isn't,' he said, hiding his grin by ducking down to get out a bottle of olive oil. 'Not as if I said that blue hoodie of yours is domestic.'

 

'Oi, what's wrong with my hoodie?'

 

He gave her a withering look. 'That hoodie, Rose Tyler, is a menace. Moulting angora everywhere. I'll be lucky if the TARDIS doesn't cough up a furball.' The Doctor handed her a chopping board and waved towards the knife block. 'Now, make yourself useful and start cutting up those carrots.'

 

Rose gave him a lazy salute and set to work slicing the vegetables. He allowed himself to watch her for a moment, appreciating how open she was to whatever task or adventure he presented her with – she threw herself into everything, even something as mundane (not domestic) as preparing dinner. Shaking his head to clear it of the fuzzy-edged, pink-tinged thoughts, the Doctor began the process of cubing the meat into perfect, equal chunks.

 

As they worked, he explained the reason behind the flour coating (“Thickens up the stew a real treat”), the evenness of the pieces (“Makes sure things don't get overdone before other bits have had a chance to cook – oi, stop eating the celery, you!”) and the addition of tomato paste (“Depth of flavour. Wouldn't want a bland stew after all this work, now would we?”). Rose was hardly a natural in the kitchen – he had to show her the best way to hold the knife so she had better control and wasn't likely to slice off a finger – but she could anticipate what he needed before he asked and would be there, at his elbow, offering the onions or opening up a can of Guinness.

 

Soon the kitchen was full of humid, fragrant air, the smell of beef and vegetables and beer. He put the lid on the pot and took off his apron, throwing it across the chair for later. Rose was smiling up at him, _that_ look on her face – the one she had when he'd done something mad and wonderful and had probably saved hundreds of lives. The Doctor felt a familiar prickle of warmth at the back of his neck: part embarrassment, part obscene pleasure. 'What?'

 

She shook her head, the look still there. 'S'nothing. Just, you're brilliant, you know that? Is there anything you can't do?'

 

Uncomfortable, he just shrugged. 'I can't say I've ever done my taxes. I'd probably be rubbish at it. Hate forms, me.'

 

Rose laughed and refilled their mugs with fresh tea. When she had handed him a cup and was seated back at the table, opposite him, she grew more serious. 'We've been travelling together for months now – it _has_ been months, yeah? Hard to keep track.' At his nod, she continued. 'Anyway, this is the first time I've seen you make a meal. Like, a proper, eat-with-cutlery meal. Usually it's just cheese toasties and Weetabix.' She met his eyes and asked: 'Why'd you want to do this today?'

 

He crossed his arms over his chest and leant back in the chair, knowing, even as he did so, that the actions would come across as defensive or evasive. She'd asked him the question he hadn't wanted to answer – hadn't even wanted to think about, really. In the last few years of the War simple things like having a proper sleep, or a hot shower, or a sit-down meal had been precious commodities. He'd learnt to live on very little, and when he'd regenerated, this leanness had followed him. To make a meal and let it simmer for hours, and then share it with someone? That was a lavish use of time and resources and company – something you only did for someone you cared about. Someone important. Someone who meant far too much to you.

 

'Rose Tyler,' he began, because he liked saying her name and it gave him time to come up with a response, 'do you honestly think I need a reason to make stew? 'Sides, I don't want your mother accusing me of not feeding you properly. They'd hear the slap in the Andromeda Galaxy.'

 

He saw her roll her eyes, her mouth turning down slightly at his flippant answer. She let it lie, though; after months with him, she'd become an expert at knowing when to press and when to withdraw. It made his palms itch and his hearts race with anxiety, the fact she knew him so well, but the thought of taking her home made him physically ill. It was getting to the point where he – the Doctor, the Last of the Time Lords, The Oncoming Storm – needed a nineteen-year-old shopgirl from 21st Century London just so he could breathe. And didn't that just scare him to death?

 

'The stew needs bread,' he said, abruptly. 'How do you feel about France?'

 

Rose's eyes lit up. 'Oh, _oui_! I feel _tr_ _è_ _s bien_ about France!'

 

They spent the day in 1957 Paris. Rose was a dreadful tourist and the Doctor complained loudly about her need to see the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe (even if she couldn't remember the name). She wore a beret and it looked pretentious, but after their coffee and pastry, when she licked the chocolate off her fingers, he found it hard to care. A bakery, cramped and blisteringly hot, sold them bread and the Doctor carried the loaves under his arm, his other hand holding Rose's as they walked along the winding, crooked streets. When they got back to the TARDIS the stew was done and they ate bowls of it standing at the stove, fishing out bits of beef and carrot to eat on buttered chunks of crusty baguette. She laughed and beamed at him and told him it was the best meal she'd ever had.

 

And that was the first time the Doctor and Rose made dinner.


	2. The Second Course

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things! 1) TW: Spiders. 2) I personally think Christopher Eccleston has a delightful face. 3) American biscuits are perfectly acceptable food. Also, anxious Ten is exhausting to write.

It was about a month after Christmas when he caught her in his old jacket.

 

He'd been prowling the corridors, still getting used to the new body and how it seemed to crave movement. As he passed Rose's door, slightly open, he heard a surprised noise – more of a yelp, actually – and despite having had no intention of disturbing her, he ducked his head into her room to see if she was all right. Later, he realised that she must have heard his footsteps, the soft muted sounds of rubber soles on metal grating, and that had caused her to leap off her bed with the aforementioned yelp. At the time, though, he just thought there was trouble, something exciting and dangerous he could fix to win Rose's admiration once more.

 

Instead, he found her standing in the middle of her room, wrapped in battered black leather.

 

His hearts sunk at the sight. Not just that Rose was wearing his cast-offs, though that was bad enough, but because there were tears on her cheeks, and her make up had run a bit so that there was a smeared mess on either side of her nose. It was all quickly wiped away with two determined sweeps of her hand. The rest of the evidence – not that it was a crime, obviously – was laid out on the bed, a scattered array of photographs and trinkets, simple things he'd given her in his old body, the sort small enough to shove in a pocket when he needed to grab her hand and race back to the TARDIS.

 

The Doctor tore his eyes away from the bed and looked at Rose's face again. He didn't know what expression his own face held, but it must have been awful, because as he was gently saying: 'I'm so sorry', she was blurting out: 'Sorry!' and clutching the jacket with white-knuckled hands.

 

He took a step forward cautiously. 'May I?', the Doctor asked, indicating his desire to enter the room fully. She jerked her head, and he smiled, choosing a seat in the corner and making a bit of a production about arranging his limbs – he was so _lanky_ in this body; every action gave him the impression of a marionette walking across the stage, his arms and legs yanked as if by strings.

 

Once settled, the Doctor smoothed his hands over his legs, clearing away the wrinkles in the fabric and feeling the coarse texture of woollen trousers as he did so. It was so different from the thick denim he used to wear. And the sensation was entirely new, now that his palms were free of calluses – his fingertips still had slightly roughened pads, and they caught at the pile of the material as they ran over the crest of his knees. With a start he realised he'd been carried away, stroking his trousers, and Rose was looking at him anxiously. 

 

'D'you want me to...' Rose trailed off, a hand hovering in the air as she gestured towards the jacket and then at the souvenirs.

 

'No! No, it's fine,' he said, wincing at the pitch of his voice – far too high and reedy to be normal. She frowned and sat on the edge of her bed. 'Um, I could make you a cup of tea, if you like.' It was embarrassing how he'd picked up the habit from Jackie Tyler in those early, impressionable days of his regeneration, but on the other hand it was a very useful Rose Tyler Management Skill to have.

 

She shook her head, then brushed away hair that had stuck to her still-damp cheeks. 'No, s'fine,' Rose echoed.

 

Silence settled over them, awkward and tense. He didn't know what to say – what _more_ he could say, after giving her the Regeneration Talk? As far as he was concerned it had checked all the boxes: he'd outlined the technical details of complete cellular renewal; listed the do's and don't's of caring for a comatose Time Lord for future reference; and finished with the “same man, same memories, different face” spiel he'd tried on the TARDIS, the one so rudely interrupted by regeneration sickness. Rose had listened to it all, her face serious, and only at the end had she smacked him on the back of the head for not telling her sooner.

 

He'd thought that had been a good sign, really.

 

Now he sat in her room, trying to avoid looking at the way her eyelashes had clumped together from her tears and mascara. On the bed he could see a keyring he'd bought her: a moderately sized diamond (by Earth standards), encased in clear plastic with the words “A Genuine Gods' Tear from Kromulan VIII” printed on the side. The planet was covered in the precious gems – literally covered; after their moon was destroyed, it had rained diamonds for days, making them somewhat unappreciated by the local population. He chuckled to himself, remembering how Rose's jaw had dropped at seeing a whole bin of them for sale outside some tourist trap or other. She'd somehow convinced him into spending the afternoon raking through the baubles, trying to find the biggest one to take home for her mum. It hadn't quite made it, apparently, given that it was still in the TARDIS and not hanging gaudily around Jackie's neck.

 

'What's so funny?' Rose asked, half defensive.

 

The Doctor blinked and looked up at her, the smile lingering. 'Oh, just thinking about Kromulan VIII.'

 

She screwed her face up in thought. 'Was that the place with the Halphi war ship on self-destruct, or the genetically modified spiders?'

 

'The spiders.' His smile turned into a grin. 'You thought they were _adorable_.'

 

'Yeah, they _were_ adorable. In the pet shop. When I thought they were, I don't know, Kromulanian _puppies_. Got a lot less adorable once I found out they had eight legs and fangs.' She crossed her arms over her chest and glowered, the same look she'd given him after one of the spiders climbed up her arm and tried to lick her face. In his jacket, and with the brooding quality of her expression, it was rather disconcertingly like looking at a gender-swapped version of his previous self.

 

Except Rose was far more attractive than his ninth body had ever been.

 

 _That_ thought was... well, it was off-limits. Banned. Out of bounds. Even if there wasn't anything _really_ wrong with objectively addressing the fact Rose was more aesthetically pleasing than a big-eared, big-nosed alien from the North. She had hair, for one – all yellow and shiny and smelling of roses (not that she knew that's what her shampoo smelt like; she'd likely make a face and get a new one if she found out). And she did the thing with her tongue when she smiled, which was really quite charming, and her skin looked a fair bit softer, actually, than his ever had, pink and glowing. So. Yes. In his detached, perfectly clinical mind, he'd evaluated all the variables and decided Rose Tyler was beautiful. Relatively speaking, of course.

 

'I'm sorry,' she said, breaking the silence between them. 'For the jacket, I mean. Is this some sor' of Time Lord taboo, then? Wearin' someone's old clothes after they regenerate?'

 

He shook his head, looking down at his feet. Already, there was a scuff mark on the side of his left shoe, and he wondered if he'd be able to buff it out with his screwdriver. 

 

'No, not a taboo – not that I would have minded. Made a habit of breaking them, actually, when I was younger.' The Doctor ran a hand through his hair ( _so long!_ ) and glanced back at her, inwardly smiling at her rapt attention, her eyes wide as she waited for him to continue. 'Time Lords never really... well, it's...' 

 

He bounced to his feet and walked over to the mirror set in the wall, peering at his reflection. Definitely loving the teeth, this go round. And the fringe. In the edge of the mirror he could see Rose, sitting very still on her bed; it was better, looking at her like this, as her focus was diffused, less intense.

 

'It's very human,' he continued, watching the way his mouth moved as he spoke. Fascinating. 'I should have expected something like this to happen. You lot must be the second most sentimental species in the universe!' The Doctor spun around, eager to wax lyrical about a new subject. 'First place, of course, going to the ursine people of Froolong Major. Oh Rose, you'd love it there! They have this annual holiday celebrating their ancestors – a bit like the Mexican _D_ _í_ _a de los Muertos_ \- and -,'

 

'I wasn't bein' _sentimental_ ,' Rose protested, huffily, cutting him off before he could explain in great detail how wonderful a Froolong Major festival could be.

 

He deflated, somewhat, at her interruption. In what he hoped was a neutral tone (but knew probably wasn't), he said: 'Really? Because the other options aren't nearly as flattering to my current ego.'

 

She squinted at him. 'What other options?'

 

He shrugged; looked down at his hands. 'Nostalgia. Grieving. Mourning.'

 

The way her face blanched at the last two words was almost satisfying. His jaw set uncomfortably at how petty that was of him.

 

'It _might_ be nostalgia,' Rose said slowly, 'but it isn't mourning, for cryin' out loud!' She made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat and flopped back on the bed, making the leather creak in complaint. 'It's just... _stupid_! I know it's stupid, all right? You're right there. Talkin' to me about Kromulan VIII and places we should go next, all grinnin' like a mad man.' Her eyes closed and she took a deep breath; he tensed, bracing himself for whatever words came next, anticipating the pain. 'I think maybe I'm jus' worried that you won't like all the same things as before.'

 

Despite being alien and generally out-of-touch with most human emotions, even the Doctor could interpret her last sentence as meaning “me, now that you've regenerated”. Given that it mirrored his own insecurity – not that he had a lot of it, naturally, being the superior Time Lord that he was – it was particularly easy to pick. He only wondered what had stirred Rose's concern, enough that she felt the need to remind herself of what he had been like Before. Standing outside her mother's flat, looking up at the stars as ash fell down around them, the Doctor had thought they'd sorted the whole thing out. Yes, he still wanted to travel with her; yes, she still wanted to travel with him. Done. Settled. Allons-y, as they say.

 

As with most puzzles he came across, the answer was there, already, just waiting for him to find the pieces. In this case it was a side piece, under the rug: a memory, floating to the front of his mind, of Rose's face and the flash of hurt spreading across her features earlier that evening. He hadn't noticed it, consciously, at the time, but his eyes had caught the split-second of information and stored it away for this moment.

 

They'd been chatting in the kitchen, warm and relaxed, and Rose had suggested they make dinner. He'd been ambivalent on the subject, having filled up on digestives whilst they were drinking tea that afternoon, but she'd wanted bangers and mash. _Bangers and mash!_ The entirety of time and space at her fingertips (well, his fingertips, slightly calloused, but still - very capable) and she wanted to have bangers and mash! He had launched into a five minute rant about fatty, gristle-ridden sausages, lumpy potatoes and over-salted gravy. As he did so, thoroughly enjoying the way the words rolled off his tongue, he _might_ have forgotten, possibly, maybe, just perhaps, that it had been a firm favourite for them both. At least, before his regeneration, that is.

 

Thinking back, he could now see the way her mouth turned down, her eyebrows drew together – it snapped into place, almost audibly.

 

'Ohh,' he moaned quietly, hands gripping his hair until little brown tufts stuck out between his fingers. 'I'm so _thick_. Thick thick thick. Can't believe I can even put my trousers on by myself.' A quick visual inspection told him he hadn't put them on backwards, despite the obvious dip in his intelligence. 'Right. I can fix this. Easy. Easy-peasy, in fact – no, strike that. Never saying that again.'

 

Rose's lips twitched, amused. 'Doctor?'

 

He let his arms fall to his sides and flashed her a brilliant grin, one he hoped would instil confidence in him – in her place, in the TARDIS, with him. 'It's fine, Rose. I've figured out what to do. I just have to...' he trailed off with a vague gesture. 'I'll see you in the morning.'

 

She gave him a grumpy look – clearly their discussion hadn't been as illuminating for her as it had for him. 'Yeah, OK. But there's no morning on the TARDIS.'

 

'Eight hours, then. Honestly,' he sighed heavily, 'I thought you humans were meant to be _flexible_.' He wriggled his eyebrows; she blushed terribly.

 

'Shut up,' she muttered, grabbing her pillow and chucking it at him.

 

He ducked, laughed, and scooted out the door before she chose something decidedly less soft to throw at his person.

 

With a determined air, he marched into the kitchen. He knew that it wasn't _really_ about the bangers and mash – it was about him changing and the feeling that she'd lost something when he'd regenerated. And, well, she had. Ever since the first time he'd made a “proper, eat-with-cutlery” meal for Rose – the beef stew with fresh, Parisian bread – it had been a touchstone of normality for her. No matter what happened outside the TARDIS' blue doors, when they came back in they could sit down and eat together. He knew how humans needed their rituals.

 

After Van Statten's bunker, for instance, she'd helped him make shepherd's pie. They'd enjoyed that meal with a nice glass of red wine, and Rose had ignored how he kept flicking peas at Adam when she wasn't looking. They hadn't spoken, the night after watching her father die, but she'd sat with him and eaten half a tray of bread and butter pudding until she could meet his eyes again; she'd thanked him very seriously and hugged him so tight it was hard to breathe (that was the reason - her surprising strength. Not the fact she was voluntarily touching him after all they'd said and done that day). It had hurt, to see her making biscuits with Jack – the American kind, not the real kind – but she'd scrunched her nose up and complained that they were basically just scones. Later, when Jack found a lovely young couple in Kyoto to go home with for the evening, the Doctor had made real scones with her. They ate them still hot from the oven, with jam and cream dripping on to the table.

 

Since regenerating, he hadn't been interested in staying still long enough to leave a stew to simmer. Why bother, when he could just _buy_ some on a planet she'd never been to before? They could be trying fruits that hadn't even been invented in her century, or fish that swam on moons in different galaxies. He adored spending time with Rose, but in the kitchen? Where it was too hot and she took off her hoodie and nudged his hips with hers, pushing him out of the way so she could get to the cupboard above him? It seemed too dangerous to attempt, not when he was still working out the – ahem – kinks of the new body.

 

The Doctor stood in front of the refrigerator and made up his mind. A gesture. A _statement_.That's what he needed to do. He'd make her breakfast. A full breakfast, not the soggy cereal she sometimes ate when he was already waiting in the console room, bouncing on his heels and about ready to explode from impatience. An English fry up. Rose liked them - he remembered that. Remembered the way his fists had tightened around the spatula when he saw her come in to the kitchen, bleary and hungover and dying for carbohydrates.

 

He opened the door to the refrigerator to check the supplies – he didn't want to have to make a run to the butcher half-way through, after all. Bacon, top left. Eggs on the door. Sausages hidden behind the roast beef. There was a tin of beans and a bag of potatoes in the cupboard, too, and most of a loaf of ciabatta, though that was a bit fancier than Rose usually liked her toast. Right. Perfect.

 

 _Except_...

 

Except the idea of actually _cooking_ the food had made a cold lump settle in his stomach and his skin feel clammy. His last self might have thought it good enough to serve someone, all greasy and covered in burnt crunchy bits, but this new body was disgusted at the idea. Just thinking about meat sizzling in a pan of butter, staying on the hob until it got black and crispy around the edges... the Doctor's hand tightened around the 'fridge door and he used his considerable brain power to stop all the biscuits he'd eaten that afternoon from making a reappearance.

 

Not only did it make him nauseated, it was just... frying stuff. It was _boring_ , which was the far greater crime in his opinion. What possible enjoyment could he get out of heating up a tin of baked beans? There was no finesse involved, no talent, no skill. Cooking a full English was sort of unimpressive, and this regeneration definitely wanted to be impressive. He'd have to think of something else.

 

The Doctor closed the 'fridge door and stalked out of the kitchen, heading towards the Library.

 

By the time he reached the arched entrance the TARDIS had shifted the bookcases around so that those concerning cooking, cuisine and dining habits were front and centre. Hands on hips, head cocked to the side, he peered at the titles emblazoned on the spines and walked along the length of the shelf, looking for something to jump out at him. Molecular gastronomy? Fancy, fiddly; far too overblown. Ancient Roman? Not really keen on door-mice, his Rose, or fermented fish guts. Striciumian? Probably not a good idea to introduce a diet rich in heavy metals to a human companion. He paused to briefly consider a book titled “The Nouvelle Cuisine of New Earth” (or should that be the “The Nouvelle, Nouvelle, Nouvelle, etc, Cuisine of New Earth?”) but thought Rose might not like eating tigers or dolphins, no matter how prolific they were in the year five billion.

 

He let his finger run along the edge of the books as he continued walking, thinking about what, exactly, Rose might like. He thought about chips sparkling with salt, milky tea and toast with jam. He thought about her chopping onions for shepherd's pie and how she laughed at his teasing, even though she was crying and rubbing furiously at her watering eyes. He thought about a warm spring afternoon and crumbs caught on her shirt, and the way her tongue had looked _so_ pink as it licked away melted chocolate from her fingers.

 

He distinctly did _not_ think about why he grabbed a book on French pastry from the shelves.

 

By the time Rose was up, showered and looking far more relaxed than when he saw her last, he was just finishing. The dough had been kneaded, had risen, had chilled; he'd rolled in the butter, then folded the dough, and folded it again, and again, until he'd created delicate layers of fat and pastry. It was easy to manage, with the kitchen thermostat set at 4 degrees celsius and the way he'd lowered his body temperature so the butter didn't melt. He'd let the dough rest and cut it into the correct shape, creating little curls of pastry filled with chopped chocolate. Now, he arranged enough for breakfast, two rows on a tray, ready to put into the oven. Rose walked into the room and took a seat, grabbing his suit jacket off the back of a chair to wear for warmth.

 

'Is the TARDIS on the fritz?' She asked, shrugging into his discarded clothing. With her knees drawn up to her chin she looked like a well-tailored armadillo, huddling over for body heat.

 

The Doctor closed the oven door and wiped his hands on a tea towel. 'What? Oh, the cold! No, that's intentional.' He popped a square of dark chocolate into his mouth and poured them both a cup of tea. The mugs steamed ferociously in the cool air. 'Got to have the right temperature and humidity if you're making croissants – very tricky. Temperamental, even.' He considered the word. 'That's fun to say. “Temperamental”.'

 

'Croissants?' Rose brought his attention back from the sound of his own voice.

 

'Right, yes!' He noticed how her teeth were chattering and he rushed over to the wall-mounted control unit, changing the temperature to something better suited for human comfort. 'Brilliant pastries,' he continued, moving back so he could sit on the counter, legs swinging as he sipped his tea. 'Do you remember visiting Paris? With me?'

 

She snorted, but nodded. 'Yeah, only been once. Wasn't exactly in the cards when I was livin' in the flat with mum. Shareen and I always said we would, but...' Rose shrugged, an eloquent gesture that spoke of plans made and forgotten; of needing to pay the rent, rather than for tickets and backpacker hostels.

 

'I made fun of your French,' the Doctor mused, turning the mug in his hands. 'And you wore a _beret_ ,' he paused; pushed his tongue against his front teeth. 'Kinda liking the beret, actually.'

 

Rose frowned, then her face cleared – he was surprised that so much tension disappeared when it did, and that he hadn't noticed just how much strain there had been, ever since he exploded into golden light and a giant gob that never shut up. 'I had a croissant. A chocolate one.' Her eyes darted to the open packet of good, Swiss dark chocolate next to him on the counter. 'Oh my God,' she laughed, suddenly, grinning widely. 'An' you call _me_ sentimental?'

 

'Rose Tyler, I am _not_ sentimental,' he told her, hotly, though it was all for show: inside he felt ridiculously pleased at having made her laugh.

 

'Maybe just _nostalgic_ , then,' she teased, getting up and walking over to the counter. She climbed up and sat next to him, her left knee knocking into his right. Her head rested on his shoulder and he could smell her rose scented shampoo, the one he couldn't tell her about. 'Hello,' she murmured, once more, taking his hand from where it wrapped around the tea cup and holding it in her own. He watched as her eyes followed the curve of his palm, over the lines that crossed and weaved; followed down to his fingers which still had scraps of dough stuck to the cuticles.

 

'Hello,' the Doctor replied.

 

That morning – sort of, there aren't really mornings on the TARDIS – they let the croissants cool on the tray as they worked out where to go. The Doctor's calloused fingertips took them to a peaceful planet covered in nature reserves. They paid for their tickets, little cardboard stubs that Rose collected and put in the pocket of her jeans, and joined the tour. For a while. The guide droned and the tourists took photos and the Doctor yawned obnoxiously before grabbing Rose's hand and dragging her away, her hair snapping in the breeze and her laughter infectious. He showed her bubbling hot pools full of life. Cascading waterfalls, boiling hot and running over rocks, brightly coloured from mineral deposits. They found a lake populated with birds that looked mostly like ducks and walked along the edge. Their trousers got damp from the long, wet grass clinging to their shins. The croissants were put in a crinkled paper bag and eaten one at a time, Rose tearing them into two, roughly equal, portions to share as they strolled. Golden flakes of pastry cracked and fell around them, catching on his sleeve, her hair, their shoes. The Doctor got chocolate on his nose and spent a good three minutes trying to reach it with his tongue – and it proved disappointing that he couldn't, not in this regeneration – so Rose wiped it off with her thumb, licking away the excess with a sweep of her tongue.

 

And that was the first time her second Doctor made her breakfast.


	3. Afters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, long. Rating upped for themes.

A part of him, the part that has always been secretly a masochist — throughout most of his regenerations — would have loved a copy of their fight. A DVD, a 23rd Century Data Transfer Chip, or even a VHS would suffice. Anything that would allow him to slow down, zoom in, pause and rewind the two hours they spent circling each other, ripping open wounds poorly healed. Without a time machine, it would be the easiest way to see if Rose's face had registered shock or resignation when he tossed half a dozen good-bye letters at her, the ones she left in the filing cabinet for after her final dimension hop. In a freeze frame, he could analyse the set of her mouth. See if she flinched when he said, “ _You thought you were going to die_ ”, or if he was the one to falter when she countered with, “ _No, I thought I wasn't coming back._ ”  
  
   
  
It would also tell him the exact moment the fighting had moved on to kissing, then on to pressing her against the wall, her fingers tearing at his shirt and his mouth latched on to her neck.  
  
   
  
Because, thinking back on it, the Doctor was really, truly, at a loss. He didn't know what he might have said that pushed them from shouting to snogging, but if there  _was_  some magic word or key phrase that did it, he would very much like to know what it was. That would be something to write down and keep in his wallet next to his driver's license and a reminder from Rose about pears (even pear schnapps was out of the question, something he had a tendency to forget after a few drinks).  
  
   
  
The hypothetical recording had one flaw, and it was that it couldn't tell him what Rose was thinking, or how she felt about him after their blazing row. And that, above all else, was what had made him itchy with panic as he waited for her to come home from work the next day. She'd left for Torchwood as usual — quietly, efficiently, half-way down the street by 7.30 — with no indication that the night before they had done anything more interesting than watch television and have a curry. The unfinished business gave him the impossible urge to visit an adjacent galaxy and, when he couldn't scratch that itch, a churning stomach no amount of Tums could cure.  
  
   
  
He had no work to do, no books to read. All his friends were  _her_ friends, and all Torchwood personnel besides; he couldn't pop by without running into Rose and making things more awkward than they already were. The TARDIS made an unimpressed noise in the back of his head when he tried to lavish some attention on it — clearly the growing stages of a time ship included the requisite adolescent embarrassment at its parents. All he could do was putter about her flat.  
  
   
  
And the Doctor  _hated_  her flat.   
  
   
  
It was odd, the feeling, because it wasn't hate how he remembered it — huge, consuming; as intense as a black hole and twice as ancient as the universe. It was a slow, grinding hate. It crept up on him as he whiled away hours, days and weeks, penned in by the thin walls marking off Rose Tyler's property from those of her neighbours. It was entirely domestic.  
  
   
  
Two weeks after arriving in Pete's World he'd stumbled across the listing for her flat, printed out and stuffed in one of the drawers in her work desk. One bedroom, the real estate agent had written, open plan living space;  _amenities_ ; great views; close to business district and zeppelin station. The slip of paper didn't mention the furniture thrown together carelessly from what she'd found in an IKEA showroom, or the way her 'fridge stopped humming around 3AM, groaned to itself, then resumed. There was absolutely nothing about her couch, and how it was comfortable so long as you were 5'5 and weren't sleeping on it night after night. It  _did_  say there were fine parquet floors and stainless steel appliances.  
  
   
  
After spending an hour staring at the ceiling ( _lofty, with gorgeous decorative moulding_ , the breathless voice of an imaginary real-estate agent said in his mind), listening to his  _single_  heartbeat and thinking of all the things he'd given up to be with Rose Tyler, the Doctor realised that human relationships were far trickier than he'd originally thought. He also realised that he was probably being a bit of an arse. A sulking arse. Could arses sulk? Rather than ponder  _that_ particular question, he grabbed his coat, ruffled a hand through his hair, then got the hell out of her flat.  
  
   
  
Walking down the street, hands shoved deep in his pockets, he tried to figure out what would make him happy. He'd tried making Rose happy and that had failed a bit — she was so independent, this Rose who had travelled through dimensions; she'd forgotten what it was like to rely on someone else, or even how to take something for granted. She didn't need him to bring her tea at her desk, or to pick up her keys when they missed the hook. She didn't even need him to turn off the TV if she fell asleep on the couch (she said the low hum of voices and music was soothing!). The Doctor worried, and probably with good reason, that she didn't, in fact, need  _him_. For once in his very,  _very_  long life, he felt completely extraneous.  
  
   
  
His musings were interrupted by him passing a corner store. A quick glance at the display in the window reminded him of  _exactly_  what he needed to cheer himself up.  
  
   
  
Thirty minutes — and four shops — later, he was on the phone to Pete.  
  
   
  
'Jelly Babies,' he said, holding the mobile up to his ear with one hand and pressing the crosswalk button with the other. Times like these made him wish he'd stolen the sonic screwdriver.  
  
   
  
'Doctor, I don't know if that is a code word, or what, but if you're in trouble I'll have to call down to --,'  
  
   
  
'No! It's not a code word — though, definitely a good one. I'll have to remember it for next time.' The lights changed and he set off across the street. 'Do you have Jelly Babies in your world?'  
  
   
  
' _Jellied_  babies? What? I'm actually in the middle of something --,'  
  
   
  
He sighed into the phone. ' _Jelly Babies._ Come on, keep up, Pete. It's a sweet they had in Rose's universe. In the shape of a baby. Not a whole baby. A miniature baby. I haven't been able to find them. I've tried two supermarkets, a petrol station and a convenience store. They started making them to celebrate the end of World War I, and I...' the Doctor trailed off, rubbing at his mouth. He was very close to telling Pete that he a) had had a fight with his daughter and b) was about the lose the plot entirely. 'Look, I just want to buy a packet of lollies.'  
  
   
  
The other man was quiet for a few moments, obviously trying to wrap his head around the bizarre phone call. 'Doctor, this universe didn't have a World War I,  _or_  a World War II. Just the Great War of 1923.'  
  
   
  
'Oh,' the Doctor said, shoulders slumping. 'Right. Probably didn't take off, then. If they were ever made to begin with.' He sniffed and slowed down, moving out of the wave of pedestrians. He was lost, about six blocks from Rose's flat, but that didn't matter. Not really. 'Bit silly of me to be disappointed there there wasn't another war. All those people not dying, and all.'  
  
   
  
'Are you all right?' Pete's voice was small on the phone, tinny. The Doctor thought about the narrow band of frequencies used in telecommunications, and not about an impending panic attack. 'Should I get Rose?'  
  
   
  
'No,' he mumbled automatically, then, louder: 'No! I'm all right. Fit as a fiddle. Right as rain. Cool as a cucumber. All right as alliteration, you could say. Though, probably shouldn't - not very punchy, is it? OK then, Pete,' the Doctor winced at how strained he sounded. 'I'll let you go. Thanks for your help.'  
  
   
  
'Doctor...'  
  
   
  
'See you next Sunday! Love to Jackie and Tony.'  
  
   
  
The Doctor ended the call and slipped the phone back in his pocket. It was cold on the street, and it was only made worse by the fact he remembered he hadn't been able to take his coat with him to the parallel universe. So. There was another con in the “Pete's World” column right there. Along with a general dearth of Jelly Babies, apparently.   
  
   
  
He wandered for a while longer, then squared his shoulders and tried to recall a recipe he never thought he'd have to use.  
  
   
  
Rose came home at 4PM.  _Really_ 4PM — Greenwich Mean Time and everything. He could check on the clock and in a minute's time it would be 4.01. He wouldn't be able to go back to 3.59. Not until the TARDIS grew larger, at least. The Doctor was so used to her coming home late, after 6PM at the earliest, later on days when her team were particularly useless, and so he... well... he sort of  _flailed_  when he heard the door open and her voice calling out: “Doctor?”  
  
   
  
His arm hit the handle of the saucepan; the saucepan wobbled wildly, then gave up the fight with gravity and tipped; the bowl insert he'd been stirring toppled out and suddenly he was covered from mid-chest to mid-thigh in simmering water and sludgy melted gum arabic and sugar.  
  
   
  
Almost immediately — allowing a few nanoseconds for nerves to kick in — he was grateful for his predilection for layers. The mixture spread across his jacket and trousers, trying to soak through to skin. The moment he felt the heat, he gasped, but Rose was already there, her hand tugging his to keep him from touching the mess and dragging him out of the kitchen and into the bathroom.  
  
   
  
She shoved him into the bath, shoes and tie and trousers and all, and he landed hard on his backside, the jolt travelling all the way to the back of his skull. Her hand twisted the tap of the shower-head and then water was pouring down on to him; the patch of liquid, sugar and jelly on his shirt hissed once, then went silent. He gaped up at her through the spray.  
  
   
  
'Are you all right?' Rose asked, toeing off her leather heels and shrugging out of her coat. 'Are you burnt?' Rather than wait for his answer, she entered the shower as well, bending down to tug his shirt out of his waistband and begin on his buttons.  
  
   
  
'What?' His voice was sharp, loud in the small space of her bathroom. 'What are you doing?'  
  
   
  
With her kneeling in front of him, he could see that her face was a blank mask of Torchwood professionalism. Her eyebrows were not drawn together in concern; her teeth did not gnaw at her bottom lip; she didn't even call his name in a shrill, panicked voice. All that gave away her worry was her eyes, level with his own, darting, assessing; continually flicking back to his face. 'You spilt — what is this? edible napalm? - all over yourself.  _I'm_ trying to cool the residual heat.'  
  
   
  
She finished unbuttoning his shirt, opening the material and moving his t-shirt out of the way to reveal the tender skin of his stomach and chest. The Doctor glanced down and saw a spreading stain of pink where the super-heated sugar had landed on his clothes; even through three layers, he'd caused himself damage.  
  
  
'Oh,' he said, stupidly. He sat up and pushed off the sodden weight of his clothing, glad Rose was there to help when his jacket caught around his elbow. 'It doesn't look too serious.'  
  
   
  
She hummed noncommittally and nudged him so he laid back, legs stretched awkwardly in the tub, the faucet for the bath pressing into his back. Like this, the water hit the burned area directly, hurting at first, but soon soothing the pain. Rose hadn't mucked around with comfort — only cold, icy cold, water came out of the shower head, making him shiver and his flesh go thankfully numb. His trousers were soaked, and he could tell that the red dye of his canvas shoes would bleed into his socks, but it was hard to care when Rose was there, her shirt going see-through as it grew wetter and wetter.  
  
   
  
'You came home early. I wasn't... I thought you were still angry,' he told her, some minutes later. The Doctor hoped it would be enough to explain his surprise, non sequitur though it was.  
  
   
  
Rose's hair had turned dark blonde, almost to her natural brown, as it got soaked, and it was slicked down against her head. Tendrils of it latched on to her chin, her neck and shoulder, pasted on to damp skin. She looked like she'd been washed ashore; a nymph in laddered stockings.  
  
   
  
Her mouth twitched and she almost smiled. 'No,' she said, slowly, carefully. 'I'm not angry.' She pretended to give his stomach a closer examination. 'Why would you think I was still angry?'  
  
   
  
He let out a puff of air. 'We had a  _fight_ , Rose.'  
  
   
  
'Yeah, and then we had sex,' she shrugged, as if that was any kind of response. As if it was  _self-explanatory_. When he didn't reply, she continued: 'We're gonna have fights, Doctor,' she looked up, her eyelashes spiked and dusted with water droplets. 'And afterwards we'll have make-up sex, and then what we were fightin' about? It doesn't matter any more.'  
  
   
  
' _Oh_ ,' the Doctor breathed. 'Make-up sex. Right.'  
  
   
  
Rose smirked. 'Were you still angry with  _me_?'  
  
   
  
'No!' He said at once. 'Not really.' Well, not now that she said  _she_  wasn't angry... 'Maybe.'  
  
   
  
'It's OK if you are.' She brushed back his hair, combing it so it was tucked behind his ears. If he didn't put it to rights before it dried she'd probably make fun of him for hours — which hardly seemed fair, given that she was the one messing up his hairstyle in the first place. 'It's not like the problems went away. I just...' Rose shrugged, looking younger, but also more tired, 'I can't be too angry, 'cause we finally got that stuff out in the open, yeah? And we couldn't keep goin' with it all bottled up.' Her hands framed his face, curving around his jaw; her thumbs brushed his cheekbones, warm against the coolness of his skin, despite the shower they were sharing. Rose's eyes lit up with humour as she added: 'Besides, it was givin' me  _terrible_  heartburn.'  
  
   
  
'Me too,' the Doctor confided. He felt very humble, in the face of her maturity, but also very thankful. Navigating time and space? Easy. Working his way through the intricacies of human relationships? He didn't stand a chance, not without Rose Tyler. 'I should have realised. About you tying up loose ends before you jumped.'  
  
   
  
'Yeah, didn't want another 12-hours/12-months fiasco,' she said wryly. Rose scrubbed at her face unselfconsciously with the back of her hand, wiping away some of her running mascara. 'I'm glad, though. I don't know if I told you, but I am. Glad to be back with my mum. And dad and Tony.' She paused and nudged the sloppy leg of his trousers with her foot. 'And you. Of course.'  
  
   
  
His heart felt fit to burst with all the  _emotions_  he kept having. All she'd said were  _words_ , ones she used almost every day. How could it be that, when rearranged in that order, it could make him feel amazing; content;  _home_ , even in a freezing cold shower? The Doctor had no where else to put them, the feelings, didn't know what else to do, so he tried to show her by surging forward suddenly, capturing her lips with his own. He clutched her close and kissed her, desperately.   
  
   
  
Rose melted against him, trailing one hand along his throat until it rested on his shoulder. Her lips moved against his, opening, deepening the kiss and introducing marvellous things like  _tongues_ and  _teeth_  and the little flick against his lower lip that had him gasping and bucking his hips underneath her — somehow she'd fallen into his lap, and, well, he certainly wasn't going to let her go, not now, so he yanked at her silk blouse ( _utterly ruined_ , he realised with the small portion of his brain left to cognitive thought) and fumbled for the zip of her skirt.  
  
   
  
Rose pushed at his shoulders, breaking free of their kiss. One look at his face had her giggling, and he was almost tempted to stand up and find a mirror — he couldn't understand what was so funny about his expression. Surely it wasn't  _that_  ridiculous. 'Oh, don't give me those puppy dog eyes,' she said, shaking her head. 'I'm not shagging you in the bathtub.' She paused, then added: 'Well, not without a lot more hot water and some bubbles.'  
  
   
  
For a moment he considered taking her up on the challenge — it  _must_  have been a challenge, why else would would she have said it? - but then he realised he was literally having a cold shower, and it was having the advertised effect on his ardour. Instead of something devastatingly witty, he said, 'Are you shagging me in the bed?', trying to keep the hope out of his voice.  
  
   
  
She rolled her eyes, but didn't say “no”, which was practically  _encouragement._ Rose set about turning off the water and helping him out of the tub. Dripping together on the bathmat, they shucked off their clothes with numb fingers, letting the garments go  _splat_  on the tiled floor. He tried to focus on unknotting the lace of his trainer, perching his bum on the side of the bath, but there were goosebumps on the back of Rose's thigh, and she was blushing, just a little, enough to make the top of her chest go a pale pink.  
  
  
'Miss Tyler,' he drawled, looking up at her, 'are you  _embarrassed_?'  
  
   
  
'Shut up,' she laughed, grabbing a towel — he  _loved_  those towels, the ones she'd stolen from the Tyler Mansion by accident, all soft and expensive and big enough for two — and wrapping it around her waist. 'I've only seen you naked six times. Still gettin' used to it.'  
  
   
  
'Well, I think it does improve with further — hang on,  _six_  times?' He tossed his shoe into the corner of the bathroom and gave her a steely glare. 'I've only taken my kit off for you  _five_  times.'  
  
   
  
Rose rubbed a towel through her hair and grinned. 'If you can't keep track of how often you're naked, I'm certainly not going to do it for you.' She bundled the second towel around her head so her hair was contained; he rather missed the anemone quality it had going, even if it wasn't practical. 'Go lie down on the bed. I've got to find the burn cream.'  
  
   
  
The Doctor finished taking off his shoes, and the rest of his clothes for that matter, and dried himself briskly with the remaining towel from the rack. Knotting it around his waist, he walked into the bedroom, feeling, as always, the strange mixture of giddiness, excitement and disbelief that he should  _actually_  be there, looking at Rose Tyler's queen bed, and her bra slung over the top of the closet door, and the pool of his navy shirt, still crumpled on the floor where he left it the night before. Rose returned, first aid kit open and balanced in her arms, head bowed as she searched through it for some tube or tub of ointment. She glanced up and gave him a pointed look, so he laid on the bed with as much dignity as he could muster — not an awful lot, unfortunately, since he was only in a towel.  
  
   
  
'What's the prognosis,  _Doctor_?' He asked, treating the title with as much reverence as he usually gave “Rose Tyler”.  
  
   
  
He was rewarded with a smile of recognition — it tugged at the left side of her mouth and curled upwards. 'Oh, I think you'll pull through.' Rose put the box of bandages and painkillers to the side and sat next to him on the bed, taking out a tube of something he  _knew_  couldn't be bought over the counter. He'd have to do something about all the hospital-grade medicine she had kicking about her flat. 'Looks like a first degree burn — like you said, not too serious. We stopped the heat transference pretty quickly, but it's still a bit larger than I would've liked.' She uncapped the tube of burn cream and applied some to his chest; he winced at the coolness of it, and at the irritation he felt when she began to rub it in. 'You are  _such_  a baby.'  
  
   
  
'Am not,' he muttered. It was a reflex at this stage.  
  
   
  
Rose extended her arm, smoothing the cream into the skin on his belly. The initial iciness of the ointment had turned into a not unpleasant coolness, an almost-but-not-quite numb feeling that was really rather nice. Whatever Torchwood put in its medical supplies, it was good and fast and maybe it would be worth keeping around after all. Rose tilted her head to get a better look at him. 'I  _have_  to ask: what on earth were you making?'  
  
   
  
The Doctor closed his eyes. He was still getting used to being open with her, just letting his thoughts and secrets come spilling out. He didn't need to actually  _see_ her as he did so. 'Do you remember Jelly Babies? From your universe?'  
  
   
  
'Hmm,' she murmured, her hand pausing in its movements as she thought. 'I think so. Chewy, sort of fruit flavoured but not that much.  _Dusty._ I think Shareen used to bite their heads off.'  
  
   
  
'They weren't dusty,' he groused. 'They were  _starchy_.'  
  
   
  
Rose made a  _tsk_  noise. He heard her sorting through the first aid kit again. 'They left a dust on your fingers and your clothes. They were dusty.'  
  
   
  
'Moving on,' the Doctor said, making his tone sharp. She prodded him in his uninjured ribs, then placed a contrite kiss where her finger had poked. He opened his eyes and watched as she began to attach gauze on his burn to keep the cream from rubbing off. 'I tried to find them at the store,' the Doctor continued, 'but they don't make them in this universe.'  
  
   
  
'So you thought you'd give it a go? In my poky kitchen?' She bit off a length of medical tape and smoothed it across his skin.  
  
   
  
'It's not “poky”. It's “cozy”. That's what the real estate agent said.'  
  
   
  
Rose rolled her eyes. She grinned, though, her tongue catching between her teeth. 'Either way, it's not suitable for  _industrial_ candy-making.' Her fingers secured down the last of the gauze and she batted his knee, making him shift over on the bed and give her space. 'That's you done.' She settled herself on her side, propping up her head with her hand. 'Dad called me, by the way.'  
  
   
  
'And what did Papa Tyler have to say?' The Doctor knew she wouldn't fall for the lightness of his tone, but it was expected of him, he was sure of it.  
  
   
  
'Said you were on the verge of a meltdown,' she raised her eyebrows, daring him to contradict her father. 'Called me back to Torchwood and everything.' Rose scrunched up her nose. 'I should get you to do that on Friday when I'm meant to have that meeting with --,'  
  
   
  
'Don't,' he said, a hot feeling squirming in his stomach. He realised, with a grimace, that it was shame and embarrassment. 'I had a bad day, Rose. That's all it was.'  
  
   
  
She was silent for a moment, then nodded, seeming to accept it. 'Yeah, all right.' Her hand crept across the mattress until it found his own; she entwined their fingers, squeezing briefly. 'I'm here, Doctor. I don't believe what the other Doctor said, about you bein' broken and full of fire and all the other rubbish. You might be a bit dented 'round the edges, but I think you're mostly good.' He laughed at her comparing him to some dinner service she could flog on eBay. 'But if you need me, I'm here, OK? I love you.'  
  
   
  
'Ohhh,' he murmured, involuntarily, finally  _hearing_  what she was saying. Rose gave him a questioning look but he waved her off, preferring to move closer so he could kiss her.  
  
   
  
He'd been so  _stubborn_  and stupid — mostly stupid, really — dismissing the other Doctor's parting words; anger and self-loathing made suddenly far more corporeal had made him deaf to the truth in what he'd said. And then, after the TARDIS had dematerialised and after they'd journeyed back to London, he'd been so caught up in what he'd lost, and what he couldn't give Rose that he'd forgotten that she just wanted him. Wanted to help him, too, if he needed it. And he  _did_ need Rose, always had; it didn't change just because he couldn't take her to the stars or back to the dawn of civilisation. The hot feeling came back as he thought about what a miserable git he'd been, hung up on the idea he was only good to Rose as a full Time Lord.  
  
   
  
Against her mouth, he murmured: 'I love you, and I just realised something and now I feel like a space —  _no —_  a  _cosmic_  dunce.'  
  
   
  
Rose pursed her lips in the way she did when she was amused and trying desperately hard not to smile. 'How's that?'  
  
   
  
'Doesn't matter. What matters,' he said, tugging at the knot securing her towel in place, 'is that I don't think we had make-up sex last night.' The Doctor kissed her neck, licking her damp skin which tasted, somehow, even  _more_  like Rose.  
  
   
  
'Oh?' She asked, and he was rather pleased at the breathy quality her voice had attained.  
  
   
  
'Nope. Doesn't count if one partner doesn't  _know_ it's make-up sex.'  
  
   
  
'Ah. Clever loop-hole.'  
  
   
  
Afterwards she spooned him, her breasts pressed against his back and her hands stroking down his sides in idle, wonderful motions that were comforting and possessive in equal measure. Her fingers counted the ridges of his ribs, then tapped a nonsense rhythm on his hipbones.  
  
   
  
It came to him then, and he glanced over his shoulder at her. 'Christmas day!'  
  
   
  
Her hand went flat on his hip. 'What?'  
  
   
  
'The sixth time — well,  _first_  time — you saw me naked. Christmas Day, wasn't it? After I regenerated.'  
  
   
  
To his amazement, and delight, she blushed. 'Yeah, well, it was better than mum or Mickey seein' you, and those were the two choices.' Rose looked archly at him. 'Mum was right eager, too. Had to slap her hands away to keep her from having a peek.'  
  
   
  
He groaned into the pillow. 'That —  _that_  — I did not need to know.'  
  
   
  
 _Much_  later, when it was dark in their bedroom and they had brushed their teeth, the Doctor confessed his horrible secret.  
  
   
  
'I hate your flat.'  
  
   
  
Rose flopped on to her stomach. 'All right.'  
  
   
  
'Is that it? “All right”?' He screwed his face up, though she couldn't see. He couldn't see her either, and his brain had to sketch in the details — he imagined her eyes bleary, her mouth slightly curved down as she listened to him. 'Aren't you humans meant to be obsessed with your homes? I'm disrespecting the House of Tyler - hang on, wait a minute, I'm getting my Shakespeare mixed up.'  
  
   
  
She laughed. 'No, s'fine,' her voice was less polished, her original accent bleeding through with tiredness. 'I was thinking of movin' anyway. Where d'you want to live? S'gotta have doors, though. I'm negotiable on the carpets for the most part.'  
  
   
  
The next morning they woke up late to sun shining through the  _extravagant plate windows_. Neither felt inclined to cook, not with the congealed Jelly Baby experiment on the floor, so the Doctor threw on some jeans and a t-shirt (his suit lamentably still dripping water, hung over the curtain rod in the bathroom). Rose insisted he wear a jacket, even though it didn't seem  _that_  cold; when the first gust of wind ruffled his hair, he ignored her smug smile and just took her hand, making her yelp from his freezing fingers wrapping around hers.  
  
   
  
Hand-in-hand they walked along the street outside their building, stopping at the cafe Rose passed every day. Here they ordered coffee, and bought fresh bacon and egg rolls, wrapped in wax paper. The Doctor looked at the dessert display case and Rose sighed, and bought an apple tart to share, as well. They ate their meal in a nearby park, lying on the lawn and getting grass stains on their clothes. The Doctor bought a newspaper and read the real estate section. He licked the brown sauce from his wrist and read out particularly effusive praise to Rose, who laughed and threw bits of paper at him, aiming for the mess of his hair. Later, she divided up the apple tart, the pastry crisp and sweet, and this time,  _finally_ , he was the one who licked her fingers, making her giggle hopelessly at the ticklish sensation.  
  
   
  
And that was the first time Rose bought her Doctor brunch.


End file.
